Faith
by Crazed Fuzzle
Summary: Because sometimes that's what a hero needs to find to keep on living.


Disclaimer: I don't own it, but Stan Lee made it and God made Stan Lee, so technically He owns it.

A/N: I originally wasn't going to write an author's note, but I had to write the disclaimer and decided I might as well explain myself. This is an idea for a one-shot that wouldn't get out of my head. Usually I don't go for angsty stories, but I got to thinking about how religious he was in the original stories and how lukewarm he was about religion in Evo, and I started wondering how he might go from point A to point B. This is what I came up with.

Faith

It was a strange thing. He knew that he should have been happy for so many reasons. The world had been saved. His mother was alive. Life could go back to normal. He knew that he should have been happy, and for a while he had been. But now…he doubted.

He was supposed to be the cheerful one, the one that always looked on the bright side. Now he was the one looking in on everyone else's happiness, wondering why he couldn't be one of them. Both at home and in public, he saw laughter, saw people oblivious of the tragedy that the world was filled with.

Everywhere he looked he saw happiness, but felt hate and coldness. He felt it when he looked at the close-minded cliques at school. He felt it when people in their own little worlds lived their lives with not a care for anyone else. He felt it when electoral candidates threw insults at one another just so they could win. He felt it when there was a story in the news about some robbery, some murder, one person hurting another for their own petty reasons. He felt it like an arrow to his heart when he witnessed another anti-mutant protest, another group of people shunning someone just because of the way they were born.

He realized now that the world was a cruel place, and he wondered. Sometimes he wondered what had happened, what had changed to make him able to see this frozen state of society when before all he had been able to see was sunshine.

But mostly he wondered why. Why did people love life so much when it was filled with pain? Why did no one care about anyone else anymore? Why did he and his teammates bother to help when trying to touch the lives of these people was like trying to fill a sieve with sand? What had been the point of saving this dry, desolate place? What was the point to living?

It scared him when he started thinking like this, but he didn't stop. He didn't know whether it was because deep in his heart he knew the answers to these questions or because he so badly needed to find them.

And he knew that it was beginning to scare his teammates too, but he didn't stop. They tried to talk to him, tried to see if there was any way that they could help. Even his sister, the most gloomy person he could think of, had tried to lift him out of this rut. But this was something that he needed to work out on his own. This was something that he needed to discover by himself; if he didn't, the answers he found would be worth nothing.

He had begun to avoid being around people for this very reason. He needed more time to himself now than he had ever before. No matter what, things always seemed to circle back to his so-called "depression" when he was around other people, and that was something that he just couldn't deal with. It had gotten to the point where the only time he went home was to sleep. Even on the weekends, he would wander the town of Bayville aimlessly, sometimes stopping at a park to gaze into open space and think, sometimes going into a store if it looked vaguely interesting, but mostly he just watched people.

That's what he was doing this morning: watching people. For the last few weeks he had been drawn to this particular bench one day a week, although he couldn't say why exactly. It was the bench at a bus stop right across the street from a beautiful stone church. Every Sunday he would stake out this spot and watch the steady stream of people in and out of the building.

He was beginning to recognize many of the regulars, and by the suspicious looks they gave him he guessed that they were beginning to recognize him too. Every so often a tall man in a robe would become visible through the doors, and he supposed that this must be the priest.

Sunday mornings gave him a sense of something that no other day did. It made him curious. What drew these people back week after week, year after year? What was it that caused them to return to listen to the priest's message time and time again? What did it feel like, to be part of that congregation? And every Sunday morning he would wish that he had the courage to step through those wooden doors.

He had never been inside a church for as long as he could remember. For the most part he accredited that to the fact that as a child there had really been no way to hide his appearance. After all, what house of God would willingly embrace a boy who for all intents and purposes looked like a demon? And once he was able to accomplish that…although he had been vaguely acquainted with religion growing up, he had never really believed enough to make attending church worth the effort.

Now he had little hope of being accepted inside that building. After everything he had done as an X-man, after he and his friends had been revealed as mutants, after he had seen how heartless the people of the world really were, in the pit of his stomach he felt that he would not be welcome there. But he got some contentment out of sitting on that bench and watching people luckier than him go in and out. And even though it stung a little, even though he envied those normal people that didn't even appreciate what they had, like Frankenstein's monster he would continue sitting and watching until he couldn't bear to any more.

It seemed that the service had just ended. The flow of people held a pattern: first a very few people would exit, eager to get back to their homes or wherever they were headed; then a large rush would come out at once, jostling one another just as any crowd but so much more polite about it; then a few final stragglers that had stayed to talk would finally leave, seeming reluctant to go. It was a familiar pattern to him, and even after the last person had left he remained on his bench, willing to wait another half hour or so until people began to arrive for the last service of the day.

"Hello there," a warm voice told him. He jumped and looked up to see the priest standing before him. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed the man's approach, not having expected anyone to pass through the doors for some time.

"I'm sorry, I'll go," he blurted dejectedly, certain that he was about to be asked to leave. But the priest shook his head with a smile.

"If you're going anywhere it's into that church with me," the man said. He had a kind face, if his chin was a little uncleanly shaven and his black hair was tousled.

"_Nein_, I couldn't," he protested, shaking his head violently and causing his shaggy blue-black hair to fan out.

"What's your name?" the priest inquired so curiously that he couldn't turn him down.

He gave his name confidently. His name was something that he could be sure of. His name was something that did not change. His name was something he could depend on.

"Well then, you can call me Nicholas," the priest offered, and took a seat next to him. "Why don't you tell me why you're always out here?"

He hesitated. Could he tell this Nicholas the truth? He would only be shunned like he always was. The priest noticed this hesitation.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's just fine, but if you ever need me I'm here to listen." And with that the priest stood and walked off.

That day he did not stay to watch the last group of people go into the church. That day he left early.

For the next week he contemplated what Nicholas had said, that he was there to listen. Why would he care about the life of a stranger? He wondered. Why would talking to him be different than talking to anyone else?

For the next week he felt more alone than ever before. The happiness of everyone else stung more than it had in the weeks previous. Before watching other people had helped to take away some of the pain; now it only made the pain worse. The more he watched, the happier everyone else seemed, and yet the hate underneath that happiness was stronger than ever too. Being in anyone else's company now, even that of a stranger, was more than he could stand.

He pondered, though, what had caused that priest to do what he had. He had enough on his plate with trying to keep the people in his congregation away from sin; he didn't need the troubles of a disheartened mutant on top of that. Still he had asked what was wrong, had offered to listen if that was what was needed.

What made that man tick? Why did he continuously try to help people he may or may not have known? What was so important to him that he kept trying even though it was obvious that he was fighting a losing battle? They were unanswerable questions, just as all the other questions he asked were. And just as he was desperate to know the answers to the other questions, he was desperate to know the answers to these.

The thing was, all he needed to do was go up to that priest and ask him, and he would have the answers. It was such a tempting idea that he often toyed with it, but his common sense would not let him get his hopes up. Humans hated mutants; Christians hated demons. It was only simple logic to deduce that if he knew the truth, Nicholas would hate him twice as much as anyone else would.

Over that week he became convinced that just as soon as he stepped through those doors he would be tossed out in shame. His only hope, his only miniscule place of refuge had been taken away from him when that priest had noticed him always sitting on the bench at the bus stop. That was always the way it seemed to be with him, happiness being taken away just as he found it.

But that thought stirred something in him that had not been for a long time. Anger. Why should he sit back and let life push him around? If he was going to be rejected, then he would go to meet that rejection face to face. Anger alone was what gave him the resolve to march up to those great wooden doors on the Sunday after he had been discovered.

Even as he ascended the steps, he felt his doubt return, but his newfound anger would not permit him to turn around when he was so close. It took more effort than it should have to open those heavy wooden doors in the half hour between services that Sunday morning, but open them he did. And for the first time in his life, he entered a church, but left it just as confused as before once the service was over.

He had no idea of what to make of what he had heard; few of his questions had been answered. He exited much disheartened in regards to this allegedly magnificent thing that was called religion. He had expected something spectacular, something that would solve all of his problems. Instead he had been greeted with a sermon about how there was no middle ground with God. Was that all there was to it? Was that what caused people to come back time and time again? Because he could not see the reason for it. Religion was just like everything else: a façade for people to hide behind.

But the Saturday at the end of that week, he saw something that changed his mind. He was sitting in one of his favorite trees in a park on the far end of town from his home. It was a quiet day, and every so often the sun would peek out from behind the clouds that obscured it for the most part. It was the kind of day that he had once loved, but now little would lift his spirits for long.

He had been lost in his thoughts when a yell grabbed his attention. He looked around frantically from his position in the tree to try to figure out what had caused it. The answer was readily available: a man was verbally assaulting a boy that must have been in his preteens, a boy that was cowering in fear. He could barely make out his words from this distance, but from what he could tell the child was being called a mutant. He knew from experience that soon the abuse would probably become physical as well.

He debated helping, but he had a knack for making things worse when he stepped in. But was there anything else he could do? He wondered. After everything he had suffered as a mutant, he could hardly turn his back now. He got ready to jump down from his spot in the tree, hoping that there was something he could do to stop just a tiny bit of the hate that he himself hated so much, but stopped as he noticed another man he vaguely recognized from the same church he that was familiar with coming on to the scene.

The new man stepped between the first and his victim just in time to catch the first blow that was aimed at the supposed mutant. For a moment the defender lectured the aggressor, who then walked away with loathing in his eyes.

He settled back into his position in the tree to ponder this. The one man obviously cared so much for the child that he had stepped in the way of a punch that had not been meant for him, even though it was obvious that he had never met the boy he had shielded before in his life. Even though it was at risk of injury and ostracism, he had protected a mutant he did not even know.

Why? He wondered. Why do these people care so much? It was the same kind of unanswerable question that he had hoped to find the answers to when he had finally entered the church six days ago. It was the same as asking why that priest had cared enough to offer his help to a boy he had never met. It was another question that he desperately needed the answer to.

Now that the desire for knowledge had been reinforced in him, it burned with a new vengeance. His need to know was now so strong that by the end of the day, he finally resolved to find out first hand. The next morning he woke up bright and early, and before anyone was awake to stop him he left for the church.

He watched the customary stream of people for the first two services before gathering the courage to once more ascend those stone steps in the half hour between the last two.

The narthex was spacious and empty, intimidating him more than he already was. He did not belong here; what had he been thinking? Here his fears won out over his curiosity, and he turned to leave.

He heard a voice that he almost recognized call out his name from the doors to the sanctuary. He turned around and found himself faced with the same priest that had confronted him before. How had he remembered his name? "Please, stay."

He wavered a moment before making his way towards Nicholas, not knowing what else to do. A moment of silence ensued before the priest broke it.

"So what brings you here?"

"You said you vould listen," he said accusatorily, as if Nicholas had already broken this promise. The priest began to lead the boy down a hallway into what he could only guess was an office.

"And so I will," Nicholas replied amiably as he gestured for him to take a seat. "What is it that you need to talk about?"

"Vhy do you do it?" he demanded, getting straight to the point. "Vhy do you try to help people, even vhen you know that noszing is going to change?"

"I'm not so sure that I think nothing is going to change, but I believe that if I can make a difference in the life of just one person, my own life will have been worth living," the priest explained.

"But zhe vorld is so cold! How can you keep on believing in God vhen zhe vorld is such a terrible place? How can you go on helping people if zhey hate you? How can you be happy vhen all you see is pain? How can you be zhere for ozher people vhen you're all alone yourself?" He poured out his doubts, not caring that this was a total stranger he was talking to. On the contrary; the fact that this man did not know him made it that much easier to let everything loose. This man had no preconceived notions as to what he was supposed to be like, what "normal" for him was. This man had an unprejudiced mind, and that was the only reason he could allow himself to even consider saying what he just had.

"The Lord works in ways that we can't understand; that's what makes faith so difficult," Nicholas explained. "If it were easy, then the whole world would trust in Him. True faith comes when you can believe through the good times and the bad. And as long as you believe, you will never be alone. He loves each and every one of His children, and is there to help us when we need Him. He'll be there for you even when you think He's left, even when you think that He's forsaken you."

"You vouldn't say zhat if you could see zhe real me," he scoffed, self-loathing in his voice. It was something that he had hated about himself long before his new doubts set in; it was something that he had lived with and suffered for every day of his life.

"I think that I would have to disagree with that. All people sin, and He understands that. He's willing to forgive you if you ask Him to." Of course; the priest thought that he was talking about his personality rather than his appearance.

"You don't get it," he argued, some of that anger at life returning. Why was he the one that had been forced to live with this body? Wasn't his life bad enough as it was? "Novone ever understands vhat it is to be cursed like I am."

"I can try to understand," the priest suggested. "Why is the 'real you' such a curse? Is it really so bad?"

"Yes." The single marcatto syllable was so forceful that it startled the man across from him. "He is zhe vilest demon zhat has ever valked zhe earsz."

"How? How is he so terrible that not even God would love him?"

"I don't szink you vould like zhe answer to zhat," he replied with a wry smile. "I vould have to show you, and I'm not sure zhat zhat's such a good idea."

"Show me." Nicholas noticed his hesitation and offered a warm smile. "I want to help you, and the only way for me to do that is for me to see why you hate yourself so much. Show me."

"If you're sure…" He fiddled around with the "watch" that was around his left wrist, and suddenly his appearance was completely different. The small room was silent as he looked into the priest's smoky blue eyes with fear in his own yellow ones. Then…

"And here I was thinking that demons were supposed to be red," Nicholas attempted to joke, but did not receive the response he was hoping for. "I think I'm beginning to understand. You can turn it back on now if that's what you want." The priest gestured at the image inducer.

"So…you aren't going to make me leave?" He was incredulous; how was it that this man did not hate him for looking like the devil incarnate, this man who he had barely talked to for twenty minutes in his life? He did not hesitate, however, to reconstruct the appearance of a normal, _human_ teen.

"Not unless you really want to, of course I'm not," Nicholas laughed, then became sober once more. "God loves you no matter what you look like. Just because you're blue instead of pink or brown doesn't mean that you mean any less to Him."

"Zhen…I can stay here?" He was still worried that the man across from him would change his mind, but somewhere deep inside he felt as if a burden was being lifted off his shoulders.

"Of course," was Nicholas' response. The priest glanced at a clock. "In fact, if we hurry we can make it to this next service on time. What do you say?"

He smiled wanly, an expression somewhat reminiscent of his old self. "You can count me in."

And he went to the service. He sat in the back the whole time, somewhat removed from the rest of the congregation, but he was content just to be able to be there. He hung onto every word that was said, hoping to find what it was that allowed a man he had hardly met to care so deeply about him, so deeply that he disregarded his demonic appearance. And by the end of the service, he thought he had a pretty good idea.

When he stepped out of the church doors that day, he hesitated for only a moment before taking off his image inducer completely. If God and a stranger could love him despite his appearance, then he would not be ashamed of what he had been given.

And for the first time in weeks, after that last church service of the day, he went home before it was too dark to see. Even if he could have gotten there in the blink of an eye, he chose to walk. He ignored the looks that were directed at his fuzzy blue appearance. He ignored the insults that were hurled at him. Heck, he ignored the people that threw the odd rock at him, because thanks to his training none of them hit the target anyway. He ignored them because he didn't care what they thought.

When he finally arrived at the institute, the place was eerily quiet. He wondered what had happened to make all the life disappear from this place, his normally rowdy home. And then he knew. It was because of him that no one was laughing, making huge ruckuses out of petty squabbles, planning out wild pranks. It was his fault that no one was happy anymore. And he knew that he had to fix it.

He allowed his feet to guide him to the family room, where there should have been people. But only one lone figure sat on the couch, staring at nothing.

"Man, zhis place is a ghost town," he commented as if the past few weeks hadn't happened. The brown-haired figure on the couch whipped her head around to look at him.

She squealed his name ecstatically, and didn't bother to climb over the couch as she moved to squeeze the living daylights out of him; she simply walked through it.

"Ach! Kitty, I need to breathe!" he exclaimed in mock annoyance.

"Oh, like, sorry," she apologized and let go of him. Now that he could see her face, it was full of concern. "We were all, like, really worried about you, y' know."

"I know," he told her shamefully. "I'm sorry, Katzechen. I just needed to…look for someszing."

"Did you find it?" she asked curiously. He gave her a warm smile.

"You know, Kitty, I szink I did."

And for a few hours every Sunday morning after that, he disappeared. None of the other X-men figured out where he went for quite some time, but they knew that wherever it was helped him to get better, and that was all that mattered.

Because Kurt Wagner had finally discovered what he had needed the whole time: faith.


End file.
